


Origin

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Action, Bodyguard, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hacker Q, James has cats, Originally Posted on Tumblr, hitman James
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-16 11:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10570791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, and his voice was much gentler. “I just want to know what the hell you’re doing in this part of town.”“Got kicked out,” Q sniffled. He was tired and scared and sick, he was allowed to cry a little. “What did you do?”The blond glanced back at the man still on the ground, his face devoid of emotion. “I might have broken his neck. He deserved it, though.” He spat on the ground to further prove his distaste, and held out a hand to Q. “I’ll help you up. And then I’m taking you to the nearest youth center.”“No!” Q burst out, “I don’t wanna! They’ll take my money and they won’t let me use a computer!”The blond stared at him. Then he smiled, slowly.“Never mind. I know a better place. Come on. Up you get.”And that was how Q found a bodyguard.





	1. In Which We Meet The Cast Of Characters

Q was thirteen when he joined the digital underworld. Of course he was arrogant enough to try hacking a “courtier” as he called them (because if there was a king, wouldn’t there be a court?). He left the tiniest trace of himself, and was found.

Q was thirteen when he was first caught by three adult men hired by the courtier, and beaten. They left him whimpering and with several broken bones.

When he was well enough to use his computer again, he hacked into the courtier’s seven bank accounts and emptied them all into another courtier’s. Then he sat back and smiled as the fighting began.

~

Q was fifteen when he was kicked out of the house for asking if it was normal to like boys. From this he gathered that it was  _not_  normal and there was something very wrong with him. So he hid that part of himself and ignored it.

He could not ignore the growing suspicion among the hacking community that he, the person who signed as Q, was the one responsible for the constant war between the courtiers. So he first went to the nearest Barclay branch and withdrew the two hundred pounds in his account, startling the teller, but he told her the truth, that he had been kicked out of his home and needed to be sure his parents wouldn’t close the account before he could take out his money. Her eyes softened, she nodded, and she offered to call the nearest hostel for him. He shook his head and answered politely that he already had a place to stay, but thank you very much for your kindness.

Then he left, secreting the money in his jacket’s inner pockets, and went to find a place to squat.

That he could ask any of his friends from school for a place never occurred to him.

There was a building well-known for being a squatter’s haven. He went there first. Unfortunately, when he walked in, he saw several people giving him strange, predatory looks; he didn’t like it there. So he left, after a quick look around.

He wandered all night and exhausted himself thoroughly. It was Saturday when the sun rose, so there was no school; he eventually just found a quiet alley and collapsed behind a dumpster, curled in on himself, small and miserable and scared.

He woke to the sound of someone hissing, “Outta the way! I saw him first!”

“No,” said someone else, as smooth and cold and sharp as an icicle, and implacable as a glacier.

Q opened his eyes, and blinked. Someone was standing over him, or at least very close to him; they were facing off against someone else. He didn’t dare move, for fear of drawing attention.

“You ain’t got a right, swoopin’ in on everythin’ like that!”

“No, but you’ve no right to prey on children.”

There was a snarl, and suddenly the two people were fighting. Q sat bolt upright and scrambled further out of the way, fetching up hard against the dumpster. He stared, gaping, as the two men grappled. One was dark-haired and had a scar on his cheek; the other was blond, and kept his back to Q, keeping the dark-haired man away from him. Why, Q had no idea.

Q turned from the scene, and yelped as another man grabbed his arm and hauled him up. Q fought, kicking, scratching, even managing a bite that drew blood, but the new enemy hit him in the head very hard and he saw stars, his equilibrium ruined for a few precious seconds.

There was another, deeper, more animalistic snarl, and the man dragging Q away froze. Q’s eyes finally focused; the dark-haired man was down, and the blond had turned the coldest blue eyes Q had ever seen on the man holding Q

“Drop him,” the blond growled.

The other did so, and ran.

The blond walked towards Q, with a very panther-like prowl, and Q whimpered, trying to drag himself away, but he still couldn’t see very well and he felt weak and trembly and nauseous. The blond abruptly stopped, and dropped into a crouch.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, and his voice was much gentler. “I just want to know what the hell you’re doing in this part of town.”

“Got kicked out,” Q sniffled. He was tired and scared and sick, he was allowed to cry a little. “What did you  _do_?”

The blond glanced back at the man still on the ground, his face devoid of emotion. “I might have broken his neck. He deserved it, though.” He spat on the ground to further prove his distaste, and held out a hand to Q. “I’ll help you up. And then I’m taking you to the nearest youth center.”

“No!” Q burst out, “I don’t wanna! They’ll take my money and they won’t let me use a computer!”

The blond stared at him. Then he smiled, slowly.

“Never mind. I know a better place. Come on. Up you get.”

And that was how Q found a bodyguard.

~

The blond man said his name was James. Q replied cautiously with his own initial. James nodded.

“Smart of you,” was all he said. Then, “You have no reason to trust me, but I know a good place to stay for a day or two. No one will take your money. They’ll have to answer to me if they do.”

Q looked at him. He’d protected Q for no reason. Killed a man. Of course, it could all have been simply so James could be the one to “prey” on him. But Q stared at him critically, and saw nothing to be afraid of, now that he wasn’t about to kill someone.

“Okay,” he said.

James led him away from the alley, to a beautiful silver Aston Martin. He opened the back door for Q, who climbed in and allowed James to close the door for him too. Then Q buckled in, and waited quietly for James to start driving.

“Why did you kill him?” he asked calmly as he clenched his hands on the edge of the seat, his stomach churning and head reeling. He didn’t think there was any permanent damage, though. He was already feeling better.

“Because he was going to hurt you,” James replied frankly, “And I have a deep and abiding hatred of people like him.”

Q nodded carefully and relaxed back in his seat.

It didn’t take long before James stopped the car in front of a very tall block of flats. He got out, opened Q’s door, and led him to the door. There was a girl about Q’s age exiting, but she stopped and stared at them, holding her curly hair out of her face. “Another stray?” she asked, smiling kindly at Q. He smiled back, tentatively.

“Of course. Do you need a ride somewhere?” James asked her.

She shook her head and grinned at him. “As much as I’d love to show up to ballet in an Aston, I think I’ll pass. Thanks, though. See you tonight!” She skipped away, whistling. James looked down at Q, who was gently massaging the sore spot on his head and staring after her, confused.

“Eve,” he said. “She’s my neighbor.”

“What did she mean, stray?” Q asked, as they walked into the building.

“I tend to pick up strays. I’ve had seven dogs and thirteen cats. In fact, I still have three cats.” James glanced down at Q just in time to see the boy perk up a little, and amusement crossed his face. “You’re not the first human stray, either. I saved a baby from a dustbin once.” His face grew hard and cold, and he looked away. Q decided not to ask what had happened to the baby.

They came to a door with a number pad instead of a lock, and Q memorized James’ number input immediately. Then he opened the door, and Q followed him through.

Three small blurs streaked down a hall and skidded to a stop in front of James, meowing furiously and twining around his legs. James’ face split into a grin, and Q blinked. It was a bright smile, a child’s smile, and Q shut the door and engaged the locks while James crouched and got a lap-full of feline.

“Yes, yes, I’m home, my little murder-children,” James murmured affectionately, petting the three half-grown cats struggling to stay on his lap. “Have you killed anything today? A mouse or two? A few bugs? Well, show me, sweethearts.”

Purring mightily, the cats leapt (or fell, in one case) off of him and bounced down the short entry hall to a corner of the living area. James stood and followed. Q took off his shoes and shuffled into the living area, staring around.

There were plenty of empty shelves and thin walkways all around the room, some with little stairs, and a few crossing the ceiling, held up with what looked like over-sized scratching posts. Cat trees stood in each corner. Cat toys littered the floor. There was one couch, leather and suspiciously clean, and… that was it. No other furniture.

Q turned away from where James was murmuring to his murder-children, and saw that the kitchen, separated from the living area by a single island, was spotless as well, as if it was never used.

“Explore if you want,” James called lazily over his shoulder, “I have to clean this up. Why they insist on trying to eat the mice if they’re just going to throw them up again…”

Q shuddered and hurriedly moved on, moving down the hall further into the flat.

The bathroom was clean, too, but there were definitely clumps of cat fur behind the toilet. There was a spare room, neat and tidy, with a nice bed all made up…

…and a computer.

Q froze, longing rising in him. But it wasn’t his to touch. So he moved on, peeking through the doorway into the master bedroom. It was boring and sparsely furnished, as well, but it had those walkways all over.

“You let your cats in your bedroom?” he asked, aghast.

“How else are they supposed to get the mice?” James answered, amused, standing at the other end of the hall. Q turned, and belatedly realized he probably wasn’t welcome in such a private area. So he backed away, finding his steps unerringly going to the second bedroom, where he gazed at the computer with raw longing.

“If you want to use it, you can,” James offered. “I have internet and everything.”

“Really?”

“Of course. It’s not like _I_  use it that much.” James shrugged carelessly. “I don’t know why they gave it to me, frankly.”

Q hesitated… then rushed to the computer and turned it on, feeling a surge of unholy glee as the monitor flicked into life. He may have giggled, a little maniacally.

Behind him, James watched with half a smirk. Then he quietly turned and walked away, his murder-children trotting at his heels.

~

James ordered Thai takeaway for dinner. Q, who hadn’t eaten lunch, breakfast, or last night’s dinner, and who was still growing after all, wolfed down his food at the computer, eyes glued to the screen as he opened a new bank account and transferred funds (stole) from his parents. They were well-off. They could afford it.

James left him to it. The cats did not. They crept into the room and inspected Q, sniffing his feet and legs while he ate and ignored them. One, the tiny calico, put its paws on his shins and made a curious little “mrrt?” sound. He glanced down, and absentmindedly lowered his hand to scratch the cat’s ears. The calico leaned into the touch, beginning to purr. The tiger-striped orange tabby meowed indignantly, and put  _its_  paws on his thigh, purring harder. This necessitated Q lowering his other hand to scratch the tabby’s ears. Then the little tuxedo cat scrambled into his lap and curled up there, relaxing.

“I can’t pet all three of you,” Q complained quietly, but the tuxedo didn’t seem to care, purring just as much as the others. Looking closer, he could see scars all over the kitties, which made his heart hurt. Well, James had said they were strays.

“MICE!” James shouted from the main room. All three cats abandoned Q in a flash, and he stared at the doorway, bewildered. Two evil-sounding hisses echoed through the flat, and one long, horrendously angry-sounding meow. Q made sure the computer was finished hacking and closed everything down, then padded out to where James was.

James was sitting on the arm of the couch, feet up on the seat, glaring furiously as his cats chased two mice around the room. Q leapt back, as one mouse almost ran over his toes, then gaped as, finally, the tabby and the calico caught the little rodents and killed them. The tuxedo leapt up next to James on the sofa, making little grumpy noises, while the other two picked up their kills and trotted to the corner to lay them down before returning to James.

“My mighty murderers,” James declared, slowly sliding back down on to the sofa cushion. “You’re getting extra treats with dinner.”

“You’re afraid of  _mice_?” Q asked incredulously.

“ _You_  try spending two days tied up in a rat-infested basement. See how  _you_  feel about rodents.”

“Mice aren’t rats, though.”

“Mouse, rat, it doesn’t matter. They’re rodents. I hate rodents.” James shuddered and looped his arms around the three felines in his lap. “Yes, you’re excellent mouse-murderers.”

The three cats purred and settled more comfortably together.

Q shook his head and retreated to the computer room.

After several more hours of causing chaos, Q yawned and looked longingly at the bed. But he was dirty and smelly and would probably stain the sheets and blanket. So he got up and went to the bathroom to see if there was a towel he could use.

He found a towel, and a flannel, and hooked them on the towel bar before deciding he needed to piss first. He turned to shut the door–

James was standing in the doorway, tucking something back under his jacket. He looked half-asleep.

“Next time, make some noise, please,” he grumbled. “I’m not used to visitors.”

“You were sleeping? In your clothes?”

James shrugged. “I do it all the time. I have other clothes.” He glanced at the towel on the bar. “Ah. Good idea, you smell like dumpster. I think I have a shirt you can borrow.”

“James?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you doing all of this?”

James looked at Q, actually  _looked_  at him, cold blue eyes piercing through him. “Because I need a new cover,” he said finally. “And guardian to a kid… I’ve never had that one before. Also you’re not afraid of me.”

Q blinked. Well… true, he didn’t feel the slightest hint of fear towards James. It was very odd, and he didn’t like it. But at the same time, it was such a relief, he didn’t want to question it. But… cover?”

“What, are you a spy?” he blurted.

James smiled thinly. “No. I’m a hitman.”

Q’s eyes widened, but he kept his face as blank as possible. He’d heard some of the courtiers talking about hiring hitmen and -women. And now he was in the presence of one, who needed a cover.

This… was far more dangerous than he’d suspected it.

“Who are you hiding from?”

“Can’t tell you.” James looked away. “Take a shower. I’ll find you some clothes.”

~

Q took a long shower and gazed with mild concern at the array of tiny hotel soaps and half-empty bottles of hotel shampoo. Obviously, James traveled quite a bit. Q sighed, picked up the bottle from the Savoy, and massaged the lightly-scented shampoo through his too-thick hair. He hated his hair. But mum had always said it was his only good feature, and she’d liked to brush and play with it, scolding him when he moved.

But he didn’t live under her roof any more. She had no say over how long his hair should be.

When he realized this, he scrambled out of the shower and searched the drawers beside the sink frantically. There–in the bottom drawer. A pair of scissors.

He wasted no time, hacking at the still-sudsy locks, letting them fall to the floor with complete disdain for its previous cleanliness. He chopped, and chopped, and chopped, not bothering to keep it even. When he looked in the mirror, he smiled. It was almost as short as James’–but not quite.

Good enough.

He got back in the shower and rinsed out his hair, humming. Then he cleaned the rest of his body.

When he was done, he wrapped the towel around his skinny frame and marched out of the bathroom, feeling much better. He was about to enter the second bedroom when James spoke from the end of the hall.

“You look like someone took a weed whacker to your hair,” he commented, amused. In his hand were two bags from Tesco. He held them out, and Q obediently trotted over to take them. “I can take your uniform and jacket to be dry-cleaned tomorrow.”

Q nodded and peered inside the bags. A package of boys’ briefs, jeans in what looked like the correct size, and a polo. He went in the second bedroom, closed and locked the door, and dressed. Everything was the correct size. He frowned, then shrugged. Coincidence, nothing more.

When he opened the door, James was in the bathroom, sweeping up the hair Q had left on the floor. “While I am amused that you attempted to tame that mop, I’m a little annoyed you didn’t clean up,” James said casually, throwing the hair in the bin. The look he shot Q was  _very_  annoyed. But Q felt that he wasn’t actually  _angry_.

“Will you even it out, please?” burst from his mouth before he could stop it.

James leaned on the broom and stared at him. “You want me to wield sharp instruments near your head,” he stated flatly.

“Yes.”

James continued to stare at him. Then he sighed, leaned the broom against the wall, and beckoned. Q went to him willingly, even though part of him was screaming that this was  _stupid_ , he was an  _idiot_ , never let sharp things near his head,  _never_ –

But then James was wrapping the hand towel around his shoulders to keep the bits off his shirt and trimming his hair, carefully, getting it nice and even. Q stood very still, as his mother had told him to do so often, and waited for a nick or scratch.

But nothing of the sort happened, and James’ hands–a killer’s hands, hands that snapped a man’s neck easily–were surprisingly gentle as he turned Q’s head to get better angles. When he was done, he took the towel off and said, “There. Now you look less like a weed whacker got you.”

Q peered at himself in the mirror, and smiled. His hair was now much shorter than it had been, and he was very happy with that. No one was going to want to play with it now.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now go to bed.”

Q obeyed.

~

He woke up to the sound of a cat growling. As his eyes sprang open, a shape at the foot of his bed sprang to the floor. There was a mouse’s squeal, abruptly cut off, and then a purr. The shape trotted out the half-open door.

“Just one of the cats,” Q murmured, and went back to sleep.

~

When he woke, he had a question. But James was nowhere to be found. There was an upside-down salad bowl on the kitchen island with a sticky note on it that simply said “eat this”, so Q picked up the bowl. Underneath was a bowl of porridge, an apple, and a folded piece of paper. He opened the paper as he ate.  
  
_The murder-children have eaten. Don’t feed them, no matter what they say. If they kill any mice today, throw them out before they can eat them. Don’t answer the door or window. If anyone breaks in, scream._

Q frowned, but finished his food.

He played with the cats for a while, then went to the computer and played online games as he monitored the emails between his parents. They were fighting about the money, and mother mentioned that Q might have stolen it.

 _I_ **_told_ ** _you throwing him out was a mistake._  father typed at the end of a long, ranting accusation.

 _Do you_ **_want_ ** _the neighbors talking?! No! I’m_ **_not_ ** _having a queer in my house!_  mother replied after a long-winded defense and accusation of her own.

Q sighed and stroked the tuxedo cat, who had curled up in his lap. “I hate them,” he murmured to the cat, “But they weren’t  _bad_  parents. Sure, father ignored me except to yell at me, and mother told me no one loved me but her, but they weren’t  _bad_. They never hit me or anything. So why do I hate them?”

He watched the fight for a few more emails, then closed out and focused his whole attention on his games.

~

James did not return that night. Q skipped lunch, but finished the Thai for dinner, and fed the cats. He spent most of his time online, playing games and hacking databases because he could. At one point he searched for files on the computer, but they were encrypted in a way he’d never seen before. He decided to leave them. James might get angry.

Why was he doing all this for Q? He was just a skinny boy off the street. James had no debt to Q, had no responsibility over him. Was he really only doing this as a cover? How could James afford an Aston Martin, while living in a shitty building infested with mice?

Q wished he could do a search on him, but without a last name, he didn’t know where to start. He searched the flat, even the bedroom, looking in every nook and cranny, but all he found was an alarming number of open boxes of condoms and some expired credit cards, all with different names. No incriminating evidence. No personal items besides clothes and toiletries. Although, just like the car, his clothes were extremely fine and probably expensive. Each suit (he had seven) was zipped in plastic, the ties hung on a special rack, the fancy oxford shoes on a shelf in the closet with the suits. Q checked all of them. No names, no tags except the tailor’s.

Defeated, he went back to the living room to dispose of the four dead mice in the corner and clean the litter-box. Then he tied off the bin bag and, having nowhere else to put it, and unsure if the cats would try to get in, he left it in the bin. Then he washed his hand thoroughly before playing with the cats.

Q went to bed at midnight, leaving the door open so the cats could come and go. He slept deeply and softly, dreams faded and vague.

The morning of the next day, a bank holiday Monday, James still had not returned. Q began to be worried. Had James been arrested? Had he been killed, as easily as he’d killed that man who wanted to hurt Q? Someone knocked on the door, but Q did not answer. The knocker continued for a good ten minutes, making the cats hiss, before finally walking away. Q had an apple for lunch.

He was watching the news in a fit of boredom (he’d unearthed a small television from the closet and hooked it up) when the door opened and James walked in.

“I have your uniform and jacket,” he announced, draping the plastic-wrapped clothes over the back of the couch. “Thank you for leaving two hundred pounds in the pockets. I had to be threatening to get it all back.”

“Oh, bugger,” Q muttered, standing from where he’d been sitting on the floor with the cats and the telly. “I forgot.”

“It’s alright. I think I have to change drycleaners again, though. Just when I’d gotten them to switch to the right soap, too.” James sighed, digging in his pockets until he found six notes and held them out to Q. “I took the liberty of exchanging all tens to some twenties and a one hundred. They’ll be easier to hide.”

“And harder to break,” Q pointed out, but took the money and tucked them in his own pocket. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I thought I threw that thing away,” James commented, frowning at the telly still on, sitting on the floor.

“It was in your closet.”

“Ah, that would explain it. What were you doing in my closet?”

Q shrugged, suddenly nervous under that sharp, cold gaze. “Exploring,” he lied.

James smirked, but did not laugh outright. Instead he said, “I see you cleaned the litter tray. Did you empty the bin?”

“No.”

“I’ll do it, then. Yes, hello, children,” he said to the cats, crouching down to pet them as they made happy noises. “I missed you too. Let me take out the rubbish, and then we’ll play, hm? Good kitties.”

Q sat down in front of the television again, petting the cats, as James took out the rubbish. They were playing the most recent A Bit of Fry and Laurie, and Q was enjoying it immensely.

When James returned, he played with the cats, murmuring affectionately, almost cooing to them. Q laid on his stomach in front of the telly and closed his eyes, soothed by the soft atmosphere. At home, the air was always humming with tension, a sort of strung-tight feeling that left him tense and drained. But here (even with the mice and the knowledge that his companion was a murderer), he felt nothing bad or scary.

He must’ve dozed off, because he woke up when one of the cats began to groom his hair.

“Pizza’s here,” James announced from somewhere above him. “Cheese or pepperoni?”

“Cheese.” Q got up slowly and stumbled to the kitchen, yawning. “What’re their names?”

“The cats?” James shrugged as he put two pieces of cheese pizza on a paper plate. “I don’t differentiate. They’re my little murder-children.”

“I’ll name them, then.”

“Go ahead.”

“Cali, Tux, and Tiger.”

“Imaginative.”

“Hey, you’re the one who didn’t name them at all.”

James smirked and handed him his plate. “Just go eat. And don’t give any to them.”

Q stuck his tongue out at James and scurried to the couch.

~

On Tuesday, James drove Q to school. His fellow students stared at the beautiful car with the strange man behind the wheel, and Q with short hair when it’d always been at least past his earlobes. Q got out of the car, ignoring them, and thanked James.

“I’ll pick you up when school lets out,” James told him.

“You don’t know when school is out,” Q accused.

James gave him an amused look. “Of course I do. Have a good day.”

Q felt a funny prickling up his spine. Fear. But it was very faint, so all he did was shake his head and close the car door, turning and marching into the schoolyard.

Of course his friends surrounded him, asking about his hair, where he was on Saturday, why there was cat fur on him, why he looked so happy. He answered to the best of his abilities, claiming he was staying with a family friend for a while, and that he’d wanted a change with his hair. Then the first bell rang, and they ran to their classes.

The day passed breezily, with Q working so far ahead in all of his classes that his teachers gave him university textbooks to work from. Soon he was going to run out of those. So he took many breaks to work out his own coding language. He had an idea that was so crazy it just might work.

True to his word, James pulled up in his car almost as soon as the last bell rang, and Q hurried to say his goodbyes before escaping the confines of the school. He sat up front again, working out the kinks in his code in his notebook.

“You enjoy yourself?” James asked.

“Mm. It was alright,” Q answered absently. “Jenny and I worked on some advanced trigonometry over lunch. Ken asked me to join the chess club, again. Everyone commented on my hair. Apparently it’s a bad thing I cut it.” His mouth twisted bitterly at the thought.

“It looks fine to me,” James replied, and Q realized with a start that he’d been  _listening_. Mother and Father never listened. “Why don’t you want to join the chess club?”

“It’s too easy.” Q scowled and crossed out a line of code. “No one  _really_  knows what they’re doing. I just beat them all, and then they get angry and don’t want to play with me anymore.”

“Maybe they’ve changed. Maybe they’re better now.”

“Or maybe they just  _think_  they’re better, and they’ll get angry at me again.”

“Hmm.” James was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I have to go out again tonight. I’ll be back before 3AM. Don’t open the door, don’t open the window. And if anyone breaks in–”

“Scream?”

“Scream your fucking lungs out. And aim for the face.”

~

Q liked living with James. It was very odd. He liked the calmness, the security, the cats. He did not like all the mice, but since the cats were tireless hunters, that part was alright, he supposed.

Whenever he was alone in the flat, James gave him the same instructions: don’t open the door or window, and if anyone got in, scream and aim for the face. He was alone quite often. But James seemed to be making an effort to be home when he said he would be, and to pick Q up from school at the right time, and Q found this… nice. His own parents stayed apart as much as possible, meaning father worked seven days a week and mother visited various shopping centers when he was home until they closed for the night and she was forced to come back. Q always felt lonely and ignored when it was him and father, and unbearably overwhelmed when it was him and mother.

But James was not father or mother. He was like an especially astute cat; he left Q alone most of the time, but when Q wanted company, he was there, to watch television with, to play with the cats, to eat subpar takeaway or excellent pizza instead of making food themselves.

Sometimes James brought him things. New clothes, new shoes, new notebooks when Q’s inevitably filled up. Trinkets that were so ridiculous they made Q laugh. Was  _this_  what guardians were supposed to do? Or was this his cat-like nature again, bringing his spoils home in an attempt to care for this human kitten?

Three weeks passed before Q really noticed. He only realized it when they were leaving for school and Eve bounded up to them, startling Q. James just smiled slightly.

“How can I help you, Miss Eve?” he asked.

Eve wrinkle her nose at him. “Mum said to tell you three weeks is too long to keep him cooped up,” she told James, nodding to Q. “She said you have to bring him around for supper tomorrow.”

“She just wants to be sure I’m not starving him,” James translated dryly.

“Well, yes.” Eve beamed at him, then turned to Q and stuck out her hand. “Eve.”

“Q,” replied Q, shaking her hand.

“What’s it short for?”

Q blushed. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Promise,” Eve answered solemnly.

“Quetzal.”

“Like the bird?” Eve asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Q answered. “Mother wanted Robin and father wanted a name that started with either Q or Z, so they compromised.”

“Not that that isn’t fascinating information,” James interrupted, glancing at his watch, “But you two do both have school.”

“Oh, bugger! You taking the lift?”

“Stairs today.”

“Okay. Meet you at the bottom!” And she ran for the lift.

James chuckled and led the way to the stairs. Q hurried after him, taking three steps for every one of James’ strides. Maybe Q would be as tall as James when he grew up. That would be nice.

They did, indeed, meet Eve at the bottom. James offered her a ride to school; she shook her head and said a friend was waiting for her. Q offered a tentative goodbye and received a cheerful one in return, and then they parted ways.

“Do you know her well?” Q asked James as they buckled in.

“I used to babysit her. When she was twelve she fell down the stairs and ended up with bruises; her father accused me of hitting her, wouldn’t listen to either of us. So now her mother only invites me over when he’s out of town.” James frowned as they entered morning traffic. “He’s been staying out of town far more often these days,” he murmured. “I wonder why.”

Q kept his offer to find out behind his teeth.

School that day was… torturous. Q finished his advanced work. He’d perfected his new language, had been practicing it diligently and using it to break into secure systems all over the world, so he could take a breather from it. He tried to get out of doing poetry by explaining that he had no sense of rhyme or meter and all his subjects were flat and boring, but the teacher insisted. So he wrote about the cats, inane poems about sunlight on fur and the grace of a pounce and the way their purr soothed all aches. The teacher gave him an A.

He was glad to escape class and run outside, ready to get in the Aston and drive as fast as possible away from this horrible place–

But James wasn’t there.

He stood awkwardly by the door as other students poured out, chattering and going their separate ways. Some gave him odd or sympathetic looks, but he didn’t notice, scanning for the Aston.

The last student ran outside, and the doors closed. Slowly, Q sat down on the concrete steps and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Teachers left. Some offered to drive him home, but he shook his head. He didn’t want anyone, no matter how well-meaning, to know where he lived now.

It was five o’clock when he decided to take his chances and walk back. He’d just stood up when a Bugatti pulled up, and out of it climbed a man.

He had light brown hair and moved like James did. As he approached, Q saw that he had green eyes and the slightest cleft in his chin. He smiled easily and stopped just far enough away not to be threatening.

“Hey, kotyonok,” he said, “I’m Alec. James sent me.”

Q wrung the straps of his backpack and said nothing, looking the man over. He dressed in black, and he had the same body type as James, muscular and probably also capable of snapping necks with his bare hands. He seemed about the same age, as well, early twenties. Q didn’t trust him.

“It’s alright, I’m not here to hurt you. James is in the hospital and he asked me to come pick you up and take you back to his place.”

“Why is he in the hospital?” Q asked, startled and uneasy.

Alec (if that was his name) shrugged. “Wouldn’t tell me. It’s for the best, probably.” He paused and looked at Q for a moment, then smiled again. It was probably meant to be reassuring. “Look, I know you don’t trust me, and that’s wise, but if you try to walk you’ll probably be attacked by some ne’er-do-wells who want to hurt James by hurting you.”

“I’ll take a bus.”

Alec shook his head. “Just as easy to be jumped walking home from the bus stop as it is to be jumped along the way.”

“How do I know James sent you?” Q demanded.

Alec shrugged. “You don’t. But I know you named the murder-children Cali, Tux, and Tiger. And I know you wear that hideous Mickey Mouse watch James bought for you. And I know you have a thing for colorful socks.”

“It’s not hideous,” Q retorted before he could think, then bit his lip. Shit. Well… he didn’t  _think_  anyone bad would care about such small details. And they were things he’d never told anyone (except to explain the watch as a gift from a family friend). So… maybe it was okay.

Slowly, he walked down the steps and approached. He stopped and asked, “Why do you have such an impractical car?”

“Because I like it.” Alec grinned a playful puppy-grin. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Home. When had James’ flat become home?

It didn’t matter. Q walked behind Alec and did not show his surprise when Alec opened the car door for him, and closed it behind him as well. He thought only James did that.

Q felt sick to his stomach. James was in the hospital. James was hurt, or sick. Probably hurt. He was a hitter, after all. Was it very bad? Would he need to stay for several days, if not weeks? Q didn’t feel safe, knowing that James was out of commission. But he didn’t dare say that.

“When will James be home?” he asked Alec.

Alec shrugged. “When he wants to be,” he drawled.

Q sat back in his seat, hugging his schoolbag to his chest. He didn’t remember James’ excuse concerning how he’d gotten it back; from the emails between his parents, he suspected James had broken in, without tripping any of the alarms, and stolen it and his other school supplies.

James had done so much for him, it would’ve been uncomfortable coming from anyone else. But it was just James taking care of him again. The bastard.

Q hugged his bag closer.


	2. In Which There Is Much Fighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took both longer than I thought it would and yet shorter than it could've. Huh.
> 
> Also: Violence is not "graphic", but there _will_ be graphic violence later. Just a headsup.

Alec led the way through the door, up the stairs, and down the hall. When he reached James’ door, he typed in the password in one go. Q, following at a safe distance, relaxed a little. Then Alec opened the door and entered swiftly.

“Clear,” he called, then, “Hello, little beauties. How are you? My, you’re getting glossy, aren’t you?”

Q hurried inside and shut and locked the door. The cats were twining around Alec’s legs, meowing in welcome; they abandoned him for Q, who knelt and let them rub up against him, purring. He stroked them gently until they decided they’d had enough and trotted away, all three looking over their shoulders as if to ask, “are you coming?”

Q got up and followed. Alec was in the kitchen, tutting over the empty cupboards and barren refrigerator. Q went to his room and set his bag on his bed, before finding his box of disposable latex gloves and pulling on a pair to deal with the dead mice (at least the cats weren’t throwing up what they’d eaten anymore).

While he did that, and cleaned the carpet thoroughly where the little bodies had lain, Cali kept rubbing against him, and Tiger kept batting at his hands. Tux leapt up on his shoulders and balanced there, purring. Were they really that lonely today? Q finished cleaning and stood, careful of Tux still on his shoulder.

Alec was standing in the kitchen, watching Q. “How old are you, anyway?” Alec asked.

“Fifteen,” Q answered, turning his head slightly so his cheek brushed against Tux’s soft black fur. Tux rubbed against him and purred.

“Huh. Coulda fooled me. Well, I’m going for groceries. Any special requests?”

Q stared at him, but Alec just smiled and waited.

“Um… chocolate milk?” Q half-answered, half-asked.

“Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

Alec nodded decisively. “Right. I’ll lock the door behind me. Don’t let anyone in. If–”

“If someone breaks in, scream and go for the eyes,” Q interrupted wearily. “I know, James only said it fifty times.”

Alec chuckled. “Be good, kotyonok. I’ll be back soon.” And he left, just as panther-silent as James.

“They’re a good match,” Q muttered to the cats as he threw away his gloves and rinsed the rag he’d been scrubbing the carpet with in the sink. “I bet they’re boyfriends.”

His eyes stung and he scowled. The unnatural part of him wanted to like James very badly, wanted to imagine at least a hug. James hadn’t touched him since he cut Q’s hair, though, and that was for the best. Q didn’t trust himself.

So he worked ahead in his books and played with the cats and hacked his way into the Chinese government and tried to ignore his growing hunger. He glanced at the clock and realized it’d been three hours. Surely it didn’t take that long to go get groceries.

Just as he was thinking that, he heard the door open. He closed everything down and went to check who it was.

Alec, of course, with his arms covered in carrier bags and a jug of milk in one hand. He was humming as he shut and locked the door and set the groceries on the kitchen island. Q came over and began putting food away, careful to stay out of Alec’s way. Alec noticed and chuckled.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, kotyonok,” he assured Q, amused. “I won’t hurt you.”

Q looked at him suspiciously. “How do I know that?” he retorted.

Alec’s smile fell away, and he looked sober and serious as he gazed at the teenager. “Because, not only would James murder me in the most painful way possible, I am also not a fucking monster. You’re a kid. You have nothing to do with our work. Therefore, you’re safe from me, and hopefully from everyone in our circle. If not…” Alec shrugged, and smiled a smile that was all teeth. “The police will have a bunch of scattered body parts to put back together.”

Q knew, without really understanding why, that Alec was telling the truth. He also knew that, while Alec’s smile made him very afraid, James’ cold blue eyes and flat way of speaking would be reassuring. Even if James described in graphic detail exactly how those body parts would be separated.

Q quietly continued putting groceries away.

After they had finished, Alec stretched out on the couch and, to all appearances, fell asleep. Q watched telly, lying on the floor teasing Cali with a feather-toy.

It was midnight when Q said, “Alec?”

“Yeah?” Alec asked, proving he had not been asleep for some time at least.

“Can I go see James after school tomorrow?”

“Sure. I’ll pick you up and drive you. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Probably.” Q stood and stretched, turned off the telly, and wandered to his room. The cats followed.

~

Alec drove Q to school. Everyone wanted to know who this new handsome stranger was, and all Q could say was “He’s a friend of a friend.”

The teachers seemed worried for some reason, and his friends seemed determined to distract him, but from what, he didn’t know. Well, he did know; he was worried about James, and nervous about visiting him. So his attention suffered, and he doodled more (a sure sign of his distress), and didn’t talk very much. He felt he was slipping back into the self he was when he was living with his parents.

“Tell us about the cats,” Jenny urged at lunch.

“Yeah, tell us about the cats,” Taylor agreed.

“Not much to tell,” Q answered, poking at his salad with his fork. “They’re just cats.”

“Tell us anyway.”

So Q told his friends, slowly, about the cats. He told them that his friend (he never gave James’ name, and no one ever asked for it) hadn’t named them, simply called them his murder-children because they kept the mouse-population down. He told them Tux liked to ride his shoulders, and Cali liked to groom his hair. He told them that Tiger ate parts of the mice he killed. He told them how all three liked to frisk around his feet and almost trip him when he came home. He told them that–

“Wait, “home”?”

“Yes.” Q looked at his four friends, surprised. “It’s home now.”

“What about your parents?” Ben asked, frowning worriedly.

Q’s jaw tightened. “They don’t want me back,” he replied curtly.

It was obvious they all wanted to ask more, but they held their questions. They were good friends.

The afternoon dragged on. Finally, the bell rang, and Q hurried out with the rest. Alec and his Bugatti waited patiently for him; Q broke into a run, and hurriedly climbed in, ignoring Alec’s burst of surprised laughter.

“That worried, hm?” he asked, as he drove away from the school.

Q just nodded.

Traffic was annoying, but soon they made it to the hospital. They parked, got their visitor’s passes, and went on up to James’ ward in a lift. Alec kept giving Q amused looks; Q kept shifting from foot to foot impatiently.

The halls were quiet and clean, and the nurses and doctors paid no attention to them. Alec walked briskly, and Q scampered to keep up. Finally, they reached a private room, which Alec entered without knocking.

A nurse was bending over a sleeping James, but she quickly straightened, turning slightly so her hand was hidden behind her leg. Q frowned. If she’d been doing something innocent, wouldn’t she have gotten on with it? Alec seemed to guess this as well, and perhaps something else, because he put his hand on Q’s chest and pushed him back. Q quietly backed up out of the room, and shut the door, leaving Alec and the nurse to have whatever showdown they wanted.

“Q?”

He froze, his face draining of blood. Then he turned, very slowly, to face his mother. 

She was looking at him with a look of such incredulity that he quailed a little, wishing James was well enough to hide behind. But there was no one to hide behind. No one to help him, as his mother stomped down the hall towards him, her face a thundercloud, and fear kept him rooted to the spot, even as he heard muffled sounds of fighting behind James’ door.

Mother grabbed Q’s arm tightly, so tightly her fingers dug in and hurt.

“You! You little  _brat_! How  _dare_  you run away like that!” she hissed.

“You threw me out, remember?” Q retorted, while inside he screamed and tried to shut his stupid, stupid mouth. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to  _wait_ , like a  _good_  boy, until we forgave you! No, you had to run away and ruin  _everything_!”

“Let go of me.” He tried to pull away, but her grip was strong, had always been. “Let go of me!”

“Not until you apologise! And then we are going to see your father, and you’re going to apologise to  _him_ , too!”

“No! I don’t need to apologise for anything!”

“You’re  _selfish_ , that’s what you are, unnatural and selfish and a thief!”

“I am not!”

“Excuse me, but what the heck is going on here?” rumbled a voice like thunder. Q and his mother looked up. One of the doctors stood there, a tall, strong black woman with a truly magnificent scowl, her arms crossed over her chest and one finger tapping impatiently on her arm. She looked vaguely familiar…

“I am attempting to discipline my son,” mother snapped. “He’s–”

“Unnatural, selfish, and a thief, I got that,” the doctor interrupted. “What I also gathered was that you  _threw him out_?”

“Three and a half weeks ago,” Q confirmed, and yelped as mother snarled and gripped his arm tighter. Mother was usually a doll-pretty woman, but anger made her ugly, twisted her pretty features and made her porcelain skin blotchy. It reminded Q of too many punishments for moving when she was brushing his hair, for not doing his chores fast enough, for spending too much time on homework and not enough time putting together puzzles with her. He froze, unable to form a coherent thought beyond  _please don’t yell at me please don’t yell at me please don’t yell at me_ –

Then the doctor put one hand on Q’s shoulder and twisted mother’s arm in such a way as to force her hand off Q and cause no damage. Mother hissed and drew back, her glare flickering between her son and the doctor.

“I suggest you leave,” the doctor ordered, her tone implacable.

Mother actually  _slunk_  away, glaring over her shoulder occasionally before she turned a corner and was gone. Q realized he was shaking. He wanted to hide. He wanted to hide with the cats and never go outside again, because apparently when he went outside, mother could find him.

The doctor turned him to face her and asked gently, “Are you alright?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Who are you visiting?”

“My friend. James.”

“Which room is he?”

“He’s–”

Suddenly James’ door smashed open and Alec came tumbling out, fetching up against the opposite wall, popping to his feet just in time stop the “nurse” from stabbing him with a scalpel. There were gasps, and screams, and people started running away; the doctor stepped quickly between Q and the fight, pushing him back, but he craned his neck to watch, terrified all over again, because Alec had quite a few cuts all over his face and slashes in his shirt, and while he was scarily fast, the “nurse” was faster.

And then somehow  _Alec_  had the scalpel, and the nurse was fighting  _him_  off, but he was winning, and grinning too, and she looked absolutely furious as she dodged and wove and tried to get under his guard. The doctor started backing up, and Q went willingly, his breath coming too fast and his heart beating too hard. He’d known James was dangerous, and he’d known that any friend of his would be dangerous too; but here was proof of the latter, and proof that there were dangerous people in the world who wanted James and Alec dead.

The nurse kicked out suddenly, her heel landing hard in Alec’s diaphragm; the scalpel dropped, the nurse stooped for it, and as she did, Alec tackled her to the ground, twisting her arms up behind her back, still grinning his daredevil grin.

“Anyone call security yet?” he asked cheerfully.

~

Q sat alone in James’ room, trembling.

Alec was talking to security, but the doctor had ordered the guards to let Q be for a time, until he was calmer and could think more clearly; he’d been on the verge of a panic attack. He felt better now, but like hell was he going out there until he was sure he was fine.

He was finally relaxing when James stirred, groaned, and woke up. “Alec?” he rasped, without opening his eyes.

“Guess again,” Q replied.

James’ eyes snapped open and he nearly sat up before hissing and laying back again. Q stood from the chair in the corner and hurried over, hands out to touch–but no one had told him what James’ injuries had been, so he had no idea what to touch. He went for putting both hands on James’ unbandaged bicep.

“You shouldn’t be here,” James growled, glaring at Q. “What if they find me?”

“They already did. Alec beat her up and security took her away.” Q bit his lip as James closed his eyes again, letting his head fall back against the pillow. “Sh-should I not have told you?”

“Yes,” James whispered, “Yes, you should’ve. Fuck. Q–it’s not safe to be near me now. You’re going to have to leave–”

“Not this bollocks again,” Alec groaned from the doorway, startling them both. “You can’t just keep pushing people away every time something bad happens. And anyway, who are you going to send him to? That nice family down the hall? They don’t have the room for him. And you can’t send him back to his parents, because there will be lots of unpleasant questions that  _you_  will have to answer. The safest he’ll be is with you.”

“I’m out of commission, in case you haven’t noticed,” James growled.

“They think you’re dead, for now.” Alec grinned. “By the time you’re better they’ll know you’re alive, but you’ll be able to fight them off. And forewarned is forearmed.”

James glared at him. But then he deflated with a sigh, staring moodily at the ceiling. Q kept very quiet and still, hoping that if he were good, maybe James would let him stay.

Alec waited, then added slyly, “ _And_  the cats would pine.”

“And we don’t want that,” James muttered. Then he turned his head on the pillow to pierce Q with his cold gaze. But maybe it wasn’t as cold as it had been when they’d first met. “Alright. Fine,” he said shortly, and put his hand over Q’s. “You can stay.”

Q beamed at him.

They stayed for quite some time. Alec searched the room thoroughly, but the assassin had planted no bugs. So this had been purely a killing-mission, or whatever they were called. James told them, quietly, what had happened.

Apparently he’d been at one of his usual unsavory haunts when he’d been approached for a job. He’d asked for the nature of the job, because James was a man with many talents, and been refused information. So, naturally, he turned the job down. They pressed, he declined. They offered more money, he politely refused.

“I said that, until they told me what it was and what the risks would be, I couldn’t take the job.”

Alec grimaced. “You’ve never done that before, mate. They’ll want to know why.”

“I know.” Did Q imagine the way his eyes flicked to Q and back? “I had a feeling they were wrong, though. Even for our kinds of people.”

“Slavers?" Alec guessed.

“I don’t think so.” James caught Q’s confusion and smiled thinly. “Yes, there are still slaves in the world. Some are right here in England. But that’s a different discussion. No, I think they wanted me to set a fire.”

“Why not come to me?” Alec asked, tilting his head a little. “I’m the pyromaniac, remember?”

“Yes, but you have  _morals_  and  _ethics_ ,” James replied in a mildly teasing tone. “I do what I’m told.”

“You have ethics too.” Alec’s gaze  _definitely_  flicked to Q and back. Q was starting to realize that this was all getting… very, very serious.

“Not as strict as yours, though.” James sighed and continued, “Anyway, they wouldn’t tell me anything. So I tried to leave. But they took exception, and then there was a brawl, and I happened to be in the way of a lot of fists. And a knife. Nearly got my kidney.” He smiled slightly at Q’s alarmed, stifled little squeak. “Don’t worry, it barely nicked me.”

Alec raised an eyebrow, but didn’t contradict him.

They were all three sitting in moody silence when the doctor came in, her brow furrowed.

“Are you alright, love?” she asked Q. “The police are here, and they want to talk to all three of you. Separately.”

Q gulped, and stood, shuffling around the bed to the door. Alec straightened from leaning beside the window, and followed Q.

There were seven police officers. Two went into James’ room; the biggest two took Alec to one side; and the last three led Q to the other side. The doctor stood in the middle, watching all three interrogations warily with her arms crossed.

The female officer waved Q to a chair that usually served for visitors; he sat gratefully, then realized they were all even taller than him now. Not that it truly mattered. He was small for his age anyway. So he waited quietly for them to start.

“What’s your name?” one of the male officers asked. The other opened a little notebook and pulled out a pen.

“Q,” Q murmured, staring at his knees.

“Is that short for something?”

“Quetzal.”

“Uh, how’s that spelled?” asked the man with the notebook.

“Q-U-E-T-Z-A-L.”

“Got it.”

“What’s your relationship with Mr. Sterling?” the first man asked.

“He’s my friend.”

The three officers frowned. “How old are you?” the woman asked.

“Fifteen. An’ I know that’s “too young” to be friends with adults, but he  _is_  my friend,” Q insisted, finding the strength to glare up at them. The first man raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Okay. He’s your friend. What about that guy?” the first man asked, nodding towards Alec.

“He’s Sterling’s friend.”

“Not yours?”

“I’ve only known him for a day. He told me Sterling was here.”

“Is he the one who brought you here?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know Sterling?”

Q frowned slightly at the sudden change of tack. “He’s… he took me in, when I didn’t have anywhere to go,” he said carefully.

“He can’t have just picked you up off the street.”

Q was silent.

“…He  _did_?”

Q didn’t answer that, either.

The man with the notebook scribbled urgently. All three officers looked cautiously horrified. Q wondered at that.

The first man cleared his throat, but it was the woman officer who asked, “Why did you just go with a strange man?”

“He beat up a man who was about to hurt me and steal my money. I didn’t want to go to a shelter, so he brought me home,  _he_  said until I changed my mind.”

“How long have you been living with him?”

“Three and a half weeks.”

“He’s just… letting you stay with him?”

“I think he keeps forgetting to make me leave.”

There were more questions that he evaded neatly, and then they got to the fight. Q felt his heart speed up. So close. James had been so close to death. From the bits Q had overheard, and from what Alec had postulated, the assassin had been about to give him a lethal injection. Even a moment too late and James could be dead.

He was breathing too fast, his heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest, and he couldn’t get a word out to explain what was going on because  _he_  didn’t know what was happening either. So close. So close.

Someone was wiping his eyes and nose with tissues, murmuring in a soothing tone of voice. The words didn’t make sense, but the tone was so unlike what he was used to that he began to calm down. He was rocking back and forth, hugging himself, and the doctor was kneeling in front of him, calmly using up tissues. Finally, he could understand the words.

“It’s alright, love. He’s alright. He’s okay. He’s going to come home soon, alright? No one is going to hurt either of you. Come on, let’s get you back where it’s quiet.”

“We’re not done–” one of the officers started to protest, but the doctor gave him such a look that he shut up.

The doctor led Q by the hand back to James’ room, and Q went willingly, sniffling and holding her hand tightly.

“You’d better be done,” she told the officers talking to James tartly. “He needs rest, and this one needs quiet.”

The officers looked at Q, then nodded and beat a hasty retreat.

“Q? Q, what’s wrong?” James asked, with genuine concern. “If those cops scared you, I’ll rip their heads off.”

Q shook his head, then let go of the doctor and ran over to hug James as best he could. It was the first time they’d touched since James had cut Q’s hair and it felt better than any other hug Q had ever given or received. James wrapped his arm around Q tightly, holding him as close as he could without aggravating his wounds.

“Not that this isn’t a heartwarming picture, but the cops really, really want to keep talking to both of you,” Alec drawled from the doorway. Q and James ignored him.

“I’ll talk to the bloody police,” the doctor growled, and stomped past Alec.

“Don’t die,” Q whispered against James’ shoulder.

“I’m not going to,” James murmured. “I promise.”

~

It was raining by the time Alec drove Q home. The doctor, whom Q now knew as Dr. Moneypenny, Eve’s mother, had “talked” the police into leaving Q alone. He’d almost had another of those peculiar attacks when the police had come to talk to James again, but James had pressed Q’s head to him, one ear to the fabric over James’ chest, the other covered by James’ hand. With the steady sound of his heartbeat reminding Q that James still alive, and he was going to  _stay_  alive, the panic faded.

He ended up huddled against James in his bed, and fell asleep there; but then Alec was shaking his shoulder and easing him out from under James’ arm, because apparently James fell asleep too. Q didn’t want to go, but he had school the next day, and anyway, James had promised he was going to stay alive.

So he followed Alec out, yawning and glancing back over his shoulder. James remained where he was, but Q thought he saw one eye crack open before the door shut.

The ride home was silent except for the rain and thunder, and the quiet swish of the windshield wipers. Q found himself falling asleep in the car.

But then they were home, and walking up the stairs. Q didn’t quite remember how they got from the stairs to inside the flat, but he remembered refusing dinner, petting the cats, and going to bed early.

It was still raining in the morning. The cats were grumpy, ignoring Q pointedly as they prowled their walks around the walls and through the air. Alec was cooking breakfast when Q shuffled out of his room, feeling far too tired and worried.

“Here.” Alec handed Q a plate and a bowl. “Help yourself.”

“Not hungry,” Q mumbled, holding the two awkwardly.

Alec paused. “…Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you don’t eat, I won’t take you to see James.”

Q moved forward and filled his plate with bacon and eggs and his bowl with porridge.

It rained the whole way to school, matching his mood.

The moment he walked into class, his friends crowded around him to ask what was wrong.

“My friend is in the hospital, that’s all,” he answered them, looking at the floor, and went to his seat. They followed, not pressing him for more information, just a silent presence. They probably thought they were being supportive. It was irritating, and reminded him too much of the cats and James.

Thankfully the bell rang before he could snap at them, and they scurried to their own seats.

He couldn’t concentrate in any of his classes, fidgeting, doodling, staring out the window, completely ignoring his new textbooks. His teachers noticed, but did not say anything. The other students noticed, too; and soon it was all over the school, that Q was acting very strangely, all because his friend was in the hospital.

And then someone recalled the story of the fight and attempted murder-by-scalpel at a local hospital.

“Was that your friend?!”

“ _No_ ,” Q denied fiercely. “He was one room down.”

“The article said–”

“I read the article,” Q lied crisply. “It had nothing to do with us.”

~

When Q and Alec went to visit James after school, he was sitting up (with the bed tilted up of course), and he looked less exhausted.

“Slept the night through,” James explained with a slight smile.

Q pulled down the railing on the bed and sat on it sideways, facing James. “My friends asked if the fight had anything to do with us,” he began frankly. “I told them no. Was that the right thing to do?”

James smiled again, the same small, proud smile he had when one of the cats killed a mouse. “Yes. Lie about me as much as you can. Or, better yet, don’t say anything.”

“I’ve avoided most questions about you. I don’t think they want to know.”

“Excellent.”

“What injuries do you have?”

James sighed, smile falling away, and began to list them. “Mild concussion, mostly gone now. Someone tried to choke me,” he pointed to the bandages wrapped lightly around his neck, “But they got pushed off in the brawl. Stab wound in the right shoulder, just a pocket knife, thank Christ. Bruise from someone hitting me with an empty beer-bottle. Bruised ribs. Lacerations to my arms when someone else actually  _did_  break a bottle and tried to slash my face. Assorted bruises. Dislocated toe, back in place now. That’s all.”

“That’s  _all_?!” Q was justifiably horrified by this frank assessment. “James, you could’ve  _died_!”

“But I didn’t,” James replied calmly. “That’s what counts.”

“But–but–” He was right, damn him. Obviously he could survive almost anything. But still! That didn’t give him the right to be so… so nonchalant! Angry tears welled up in Q’s eyes, and he scowled fiercely. “Don’t do it again!” he snapped, ineffectual and cliché as it was.

“I’ll try not to,” James answered, and he seemed absolutely sincere.

They talked about school, and Q told James, quietly, staring at his hands, about his parents. Alec pretended not to hear, and he definitely pretended not to see how James’ face hardened as Q described his mother screaming at him and his father telling him he was useless. But James’ voice gave nothing away, as he calmly and unshakably told Q that he was the farthest thing from useless, and his mother was never going to scream at him again. Not if James could help it.

Q even began to believe it.

“I know I’m not useless,” he lied, trying to pretend smugness. “I’m already a better hacker than anyone in the United Kingdom, probably all of Europe. I can do anything–well, almost anything. I bet… I bet I could find the people who sent that lady!” he claimed wildly, his imagination suddenly sparked, as he saw code scrolling, as if interposed between himself and James. Yes–yes, he could do it. He just needed her alias, and he could get that from the police. All he’d have to do was sneak into the police station where she was being held and get to a computer. “Just need to break in and steal information put it through the and then search shouldn’t what kind of security do the police never mind I’ll find out can do it!”

“Q, what the hell was all that?” James demanded, looking genuinely startled for the first time since they’d met.

“I just need to break into the police station and steal some information and put it through my programs and then search it shouldn’t be too hard.” Q beamed at James triumphantly.

“No. No.” James grabbed Q’s hand and glared into his eyes. “Q, you are  _not_  breaking into a police station just to find out who sent her. Alec is.”

“Hey!” Alec protested.

Q blinked, grin slipping away. “But I can still search?”

“If you say you can find them… against my better judgement, yes.”

Q, James, and Alec discussed Q’s plan in low voices, Alec sitting in the chair, Q still sitting on James’ bed. Alec grudgingly agreed to break into the police station and get as much information as he could. James sighed and promised not to try and break out of the hospital. Q swore not to put himself in undue danger.

Alec put one broad hand on Q’s skinny shoulder, and James wrapped his own hand around Q’s. He looked between them, and saw real concern there. They really wanted him to be safe. He nodded decisively, and added internally that he would never do anything dangerous again.

Well. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.

They left because James was falling asleep again. Q squeezed his hand before allowing Alec to escort him out.

The ride home was quiet, as always. But then suddenly, Alec asked, “Are you certain you can do this without getting in trouble?”

“Yes,” Q answered firmly. “It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”

Alec’s head whipped around, and he stared at Q. “You what.”

“I’ve done this before, put in someone’s alias and found their real name.” Q shrugged. “It’s just hacking. It’ll be harder because she’s not on the internet, but I can find who hired her.”

“Unless they went the old fashioned route and just went up to her at her preferred place of business and asked if she’d kill for money.”

Q gave Alec a Look. “No. More and more assassins and black hats are coming online all the time. I will find her.”

Alec did not question him again.

~

The next day was, happily enough, a Saturday. So Q felt no guilt in staying up into the wee hours, waiting impatiently for Alec to get back from his break-in. It was going to take forty-eight, no, seventy-two hours to suss out who the assassin really was and who’d hired her. He’d have to take a sick day. But he could do it.

Alec returned at four in the morning with Q’s notebook, full of the information Q needed, copied down neatly and in exactly the right format. Q thanked him, then rushed to the computer, sat down, and began his search.

It took him barely three hours to find out her real name–or, the name she’d been hired under.

It took him six more to find out that she had been hired by one of the courtiers.

They were good. They were very good, at hiding their tracks and confusing their trails. But they weren’t Q. His eyes flew across lines of information faster than his fingers could type, and his face became fixed in a kind of half-snarl, that he couldn’t type with the speed of a machine. And the more he read, the angrier he got.

Until he reached the encrypted groupchat, and brutally forced his way in, ripping their encryptions to shreds, letting in a thousand waiting viruses and programs. Then he began to be afraid.

The courtiers had been trying to find  _him_.

Immediately, he backtracked, erasing himself, hiding in the confusion he knew was being caused by error codes and popups and other horrible things. He scrubbed his existence from the ‘net, going for thoroughness over speed, and bulked up the firewalls and protections around this computer while his scrubbers worked in the background. He manually went over every detail, finding what his programs missed, tweaking parameters and mending the walls behind him. He even remembered the small details that had let him in in the first place. He did everything he could, and when he was done, he was exhausted.

He checked the date and time. It had been thirty-two hours.

~

Q gave all his information to Alec and told him his theories. Then he said fretfully, “I don’t know how they did it. I don’t know  _why_  they did it. I’m just a hacker. I’m better than them, but I don’t–I don’t  _use_  my hacking. It’s for fun. And for stealing money. But that’s all.”

“They don’t know that,” Alec answered, eyeing him thoughtfully. “They probably think you’re hoarding information.”

“I don’t hoard!” Q protested, stung; then he blushed, and added, “Well, not important stuff.”

Alec laughed. “Alright, kotyonok. Thank you for the intel. I’ll get these bastards, for the both of you.”

Q looked at him. “…Thank you,” he said finally.

“You’re welcome.”

~

Q learned a very important thing when Alec left to go find the people responsible for the attack on James:

Waiting is hell.

He paced restlessly for a few hours. Then he checked up on his parents. His mother was pregnant and was posting all over Facebook that she was excited to have a baby in the house. She ignored everyone who asked about Q. His father had been promoted. He posted statuses every few hours about how much money he’d just made.

He logged off Facebook.

He stole money from a member of the House of Lords that he didn’t agree with politically. He hacked a rival and sent flowers to her mother. He wrote code for a virus and unleashed it on the King. He played with the cats and did his homework.

He was getting ready to go to bed when someone knocked on the front door. Hoping it was Alec, he ran over and peered out the peephole.

“Police, open up!” barked a voice.

Q immediately dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the kitchen, grabbing the knife from the counter that Alec had taught him to use (non-lethally of course). He was wary of the police. He’d broken several laws mining for information, and he knew James and Alec had broken still more. And his last encounter with police hadn’t ended well anyway.

“Police! Open up!”

He rose into a crouch in the far corner of the kitchen. The cats ran silently to him, his three little guardians.

The person--or people, he hadn’t counted--on the other side of the door kept hammering and yelling. Suddenly all went quiet. Ominously quiet. Sweat beaded on his face and between his shoulder blades.

There was a mighty crash that made Q and the cats jump, then another, and another, and another. One more, and the door flew open, banging into the wall. The cats let loose truly evil sounding yowls and pelted for the door, where it seemed like dozens of men poured into the flat. All the men turned to see three streaks attacking, and one cannonball with a knife.

The fight was messy. Q was unused to fighting, but he marked several of the “police” with his knife before one of them grabbed him from behind and lifted him. He lashed out with his feet, connected with one man’s chest and sent him stumbling back into two others, stabbed backwards with his knife and pierced flesh deeply. The man holding him screamed and dropped him; he did not let go of his knife. The cats were causing havoc, tripping men, and Tux was leaping from man to man, clawing at their eyes. Someone kicked Tiger into a wall; Q took a breath and screamed at the top of his lungs, rushing the man. He didn’t get very far; someone else picked him up, and though he squirmed and flailed, the other didn’t let go. Somehow Q twisted and sank his teeth into the man’s hand, drawing blood. He was dropped again, and slashed wildly at the next pair of hands that reached for him. They wanted to capture him, not hurt him. Well, fuck that. He’d rather die than go wherever they planned to take him.

He lost his knife when he buried it in someone’s thigh. Now he was weaponless. But he had teeth, and his fists were small but hard, and his legs were strong. He continued to fight, screaming so loud he felt dizzy. But adrenaline was pumping through him, keeping him on his feet longer than should’ve been possible.

Suddenly there were more people, these ones in blue uniforms, shouting and hitting the men with batons and Tasers. Q stopped screaming. He realized he was covered in blood, and he hurt all over, and he was shaking. Everyone was fighting, but the people in uniforms were winning. Q went to the wall, leaned back against it, and slid down to sit on the floor out of the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell I really love the idea of Q finding a home with James
> 
> Also: This was written in small snippets on tumblr. Not sure when I'll update it. But, as always, Comments = life, love, and happiness.


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